


Hello, Dahlia

by StaceyMarie123



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Cockles, M/M, tumblr prompt fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-13
Updated: 2012-11-13
Packaged: 2017-11-18 14:44:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/562196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StaceyMarie123/pseuds/StaceyMarie123
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Student!Jensen, Professor!Misha AU. Misha finds a bouquet of flowers in his office one morning and thinks that they're nothing more than a present from a thankful student. And then another bouquet arrives the week after, and another the week after that. With every fresh week brings a fresh batch of flowers and Misha is becoming obsessed with finding out who the sender is and putting a stop to this nonsense once and for all. </p><p>    “You can’t keep sending flowers to my office, Jensen. I don’t date my students.”<br/>“But it got you to notice me, didn’t it?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hello, Dahlia

**Author's Note:**

> This is a little keyboard smash that occurred as a result of jennycockles' AU meme gifset which can be found here: http://jennycockles.tumblr.com/post/26064178344/  
> Go check out her page, she's a goddess!  
> The idea is owned entirely by her, I just own the blahblahblah.  
> I hope you enjoy and let me know what you think!

In Misha’s defence, the classes were pretty huge.

He knew, deep down, that it wasn’t some untold fascination with Theological Studies that kept the number of enrolled students for his classes higher than any other course available at the college. He knew that it wasn’t the best subject out there, knew that the majority of students primarily took it just to fill up their timetables or just saw it as an easy course to pass. But that wasn’t the case for his class and he knew why. It was because of his voice, plain and simple. (And his witty sense of humour, too, though he may just be kidding himself with that one.) He had one of those voices, the kind where you can’t help but sit up and pay attention. Its effect on his students had been obvious since day one.

When he had walked into the lecture hall on his first day, the room was barely a quarter full. But he had taken a deep breath, clasped and unclasped his hands a few times and said, “Hello, everyone. My name is Professor Misha Collins.”

And that was enough. He watched as the students sat up and looked at him for the first time and (seemingly as if collectively coming to the same conclusion) reached into their messenger bags, pulling out a pen and notepad and each waiting for further instruction. Even the half-baked stoner at the back of the room, who had obviously decided to choose the class at the last minute to use as an opportunity to catch up on beauty sleep, sat up straighter and stared at him with glazed eyes.

Misha’s voice was distinct, different to the other professors’ – it was deep, like he smoked a ten pack of cigarettes everyday and gargled gravel between each one. His voice was entrancing enough to keep the students focused on him for an hour and thirty minutes each day without any complaints. If it wasn’t for the amazing exam results he managed to dig up each year, he would assume that his students simply sat there, gazing at him blankly and letting his voice wash over them each lesson.

By the end of his first year the word had apparently spread and every seat in the lecture hall was taken with a rush of students signing up for a renewal of the subject for the following year. So, it wasn’t really his fault that he didn’t know each and every student by name and face. He knew them in his own way, of course. ‘Short chick with the square jaw’ and her boyfriend, ‘giant with the model hair’, were favourites of his. And the giant’s best friend, ‘bowlegs with the nice eyes’, was pleasant to look at when the lecture for that day was too dull for even Misha to pay attention to. But he was at a loss to their actual parent-given names.

When the first bouquet had shown up, it didn’t really strike Misha as odd – he was a well loved Professor and a favourite among the students, so why wouldn’t they send him a gift to celebrate how awesome he was? So he shoved the daisies in a vase, put the vase on his desk and had absently thrown the attached note (‘ _For Professor Collins. J._ ’) into the bottom drawer. The flowers had stayed there, sat proudly at the front of the lecture hall, until they started to wilt and were beyond salvation. So when he threw them away at the end of the week (after the falling petals had started to annoy him) he didn’t expect there to be more. He had just assumed they were a nice, one-off gesture from a thankful student.

Then he found another bouquet, lilies this time, fresh in his office the next Monday morning. The note was more elaborate, but had been penned in the same curvaceous script and signed with the same vague letter. ‘ _For Professor Collins. I saw that you enjoyed my last gift, so I thought you wouldn’t mind another. Lilies are my favourite. I hope you enjoy them as much as I do. J._ ’

It was creepy, but it was equally charming and so Misha plonked the new vase of flowers on his desk ten minutes before his first class of the week. Once the flowers had done all that they could and had started to wilt, he had thrown them into the rubbish after his last lesson on Friday. Then another bouquet appeared in his office the following week. And then another. And then another. Every bouquet had their own separate card and each one was more elaborate and detailed than the last, complimenting his choice of tie or his eyes or his deliverance of last week’s lecture or how his hair was particularly fetching when it looked like he had just rolled out of bed. But each one was signed the exact same way: J.

After a couple of months, the notes that came with the flowers began to get more and more adventurous. So adventurous that Misha had taken to coming in early to work every Monday morning so he could find the card, read it, throw it in with the others in the (now locked) drawer of his desk and have time to cool down before his students began to trickle into the room for their lesson. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy the notes – quite the opposite, actually. He looked forward to reading each new message at the start of every week. But it had become painfully obvious that the student, though anonymous, definitely had more in mind than a simple platonic relationship with Misha (if the ‘ _Last night I fantasised about you fucking me over your desk – maybe we should try that, one day? J._ ’ was anything to go by.)

And at first it was okay. He could act like the notes he found weren’t anything important, like he didn’t go home and jack off to them at the start of each week (imagining a guy that was tallshortmuscularslim but always with a vague, non-identifiable face). But one day, while he was waiting for his micro-dinner to finish revolving in the microwave, it dawned on him; he was getting off with a student. Okay, so he wasn’t actually with a student per se but the principle was the same. And he wasn’t okay with that. Sure, he was as crazy as the next thirty year old Theological Studies professor, but he had limits. And this thing, this unnameable situation, had to stop.

But, after ten minutes of staring into space and wondering just how he was meant to put a stop to this state of affairs, Misha realised that it was much easier said than done. He didn’t have the first clue to who the sender was, didn’t even have a hint of an idea of how to go about identifying them. No matter how early he showed up on Monday morning, the flowers were already there so catching the student in the act was out of the question. And it wasn’t like he could compare and contrast the handwriting from the notes with the handwriting of his students because he preferred them to type up their essays before handing them in. So as time passed, and he was still no closer to finding out the identity of the mysterious student, Misha was pretty close to tearing his hair out.

Then Julie, the lovely Julie McNiven, reminded Misha just why he had hired her as his personal assistant. It was a fluke, really, completely unplanned. Misha had forgotten to fill out the supplies list for the next semester and it was due at eight o’clock the following Monday morning. It just so happened to be closing in on 11:30pm the Sunday before and Julie, lovely Julie, lived in the college dorms and offered to fill out the form for him so it was ready to be sent to management early the next morning.

She had caught the guy whilst he was depositing the week’s bouquet in Misha’s office (a lovely collection of chrysanthemums). She had hidden behind the door and had waited for him to leave before ringing Misha on his cell and cackling fiendishly for near on five minutes. And so, it was discovered that the mysterious flower-delivering student deposited each fresh bouquet at a quarter to midnight the night before classes begun. This was, Misha realised belatedly, why the flowers were already there even when he entered his office an hour or two earlier than usual. Julie hadn’t wanted to tell him who she had seen at first. She had obviously found the whole situation too laugh-out-loud hilarious to possibly make it any easier for Misha to sleep at night. After a drawn out session of threatening physical bodily harm and an embarrassing amount of grovelling (in which Misha was conned out of next week’s Yankee’s tickets) Julie finally took pity on him. And then she said the two words that changed everything: Jensen Ackles.

Misha would have liked to have said that the mere name alone was enough to trigger some kind of recognition, but he wasn’t that lucky. He rolled the name around in his mouth a few times (Jensen, _Jen_ sen, Jen _sen_ , Jensen _Ackles_ ) but there was still only the unidentifiable figure that popped into his mind every time he thought of the anonymous student.

So, that night while nursing a beer in the safety of his flat and avoiding grading the mountain-sized stack of essays he had hoarded on his coffee table, he accessed the college server through his laptop and searched for the name. The picture that popped up was enough to take Misha’s breath away. A scattering of freckles, spiked dirty blonde hair, intense green eyes, lusciously plump limps… And he knew that, if the picture hadn’t stopped at his shoulders, it would go on to show toned forearms and a muscular ass that was covered in a pair of worn jeans. Because of course he knew who Jensen was. He had caught himself staring at the boy enough times in his lectures and was finally able to put a name to the face. Jensen, the mysterious flower-sending student, was ‘bowlegs with the nice eyes’.

All of a sudden, everything had gotten ten thousand times worse because every fantasy he’d ever had of the anonymous guy ( _‘Last night I fantasised about you fucking me over your desk – maybe we should try that, one day?’_ ) suddenly had Jensen’s face and Misha was hard just thinking about it. But he couldn’t lust after a student, not even one as attractive and willing as Jensen. So, valiantly ignoring his hard on, Misha went to sleep that night in the mindset that he had to put an end to this. He had to, before he did something he would regret (which was definitely likely considering he couldn’t _get those cock-sucking lips out of his fucking head_ ).

Misha had wimped out every day that week, had taken a deep breath to call out Jensen’s name as the students filed out of the lecture hall but had swallowed his words when Jensen passed by his desk on his way out the door. And there it was. A small, secret smile that Jensen shot his way that Misha had never noticed before, like Jensen knew something Misha didn’t… Only Misha was in on the secret now, too. And this time it was Jensen that was none the wiser.

Every Friday, Jensen, his giant friend and the giant’s midget girlfriend were in Misha’s last class of the day. And so it was, as the final bell rung and the chrysanthemums were on their last legs in the vase on his desk, that Misha metaphorically grew some balls, took a deep breath and called, “Jensen Ackles? Could I see you for a moment, please?”

Then he turned to stare intently at his desk because he was a coward and couldn’t look at Jensen’s face right now. So, he pretended to organise some papers, pretended to collect his shit together, pretended not to notice the questioning look that the giant shot Jensen as he closed the door behind him. Then Misha turned to look at the object of his (twisted) affection.

“You wanted to see me, Professor?” And, God, even his voice was enough to make Misha’s knees weak and his dick twitch in interest. But no. He had to concentrate. He was on a mission and he couldn’t stray from the topic at hand.

“You can’t keep sending flowers to my office, Jensen. I don’t date my students.” There. It was out in the open. No beating around the bush. Straight to the point. But Jensen just smirked, raised an eyebrow and didn’t even blush. He didn’t even bother to question how Misha knew it was him.

“But it got you to notice me, didn’t it?” And yes, that was a true statement as any (just like it was true that Misha had noticed Jensen before the flowers started arriving in his office, even if he hadn’t known the kid’s name at the time) but that was beside the point. Completely not the case.

“As lovely as the thought is, Jensen,” and, God was it a lovely thought, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to stop.”

“So you wouldn’t mind if I suddenly stopped sending you them?” Jensen replied with an eyebrow still arched incredulously.

“Of course not.” But Misha would mind. These days he couldn’t even imagine his desk beyond the vase of flowers that had managed to become a permanent fixture at the top right had corner. And the notes, Christ, the notes that he had found himself jacking off to in the safety of his bedroom even after he had found out the identity of the mysterious sender. All because he couldn’t help himself, no matter how much he tried to avoid it.

“Somehow, Professor, I don’t believe you.” Jensen had taken a step closer. Misha hadn’t even noticed him move, but there he was, directly in front of him from where he was perched on the edge of his desk.

“E-Either way, Jensen,” Misha stuttered (he fucking stuttered, what was the kid doing to him?), “I don’t date my students. There’s a level of respect there, boundaries that shouldn’t be crossed.” Then Jensen was leaning forward, right into Misha’s personal space and he couldn’t bring himself to move, couldn’t bring himself to push Jensen away.

He caught a flash of a smug smile and then there was warm breath on his ear and Jensen was whispering, “I’m not really asking you respect me. Am I, _Misha_?”

And there it was. That was the deal breaker. When the whispered ‘Misha’ passed Jensen’s lips, he knew that he couldn’t say no to him. And that was the point where the query of ‘maybe we should try that, one day?’ became well and truly answered.


End file.
